


186 Days

by SplinterCell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alexander Pierce is a bag of dicks, Angst, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 06:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/pseuds/SplinterCell
Summary: Brock and Jack are soulmates. Or were, at any rate.





	186 Days

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small thing inspired by a discussion of the bed-sharing trope on tumblr which got out of hand.  
> With thanks to Kalika999 for the angst-spiration!

 

It’s been 307 days since five little words changed both of their lives.

_They're making me the Handler._

“Tell me you’re gonna say no!” Jack had raged that evening, knowing but not caring that he was being unfair and asking Brock to do something _he_ wouldn’t do if their positions were reversed. “For fuck’s sake, Brock,” The fear crawling along his skin made him cruel. “Tell me you’re gonna do the _right fucking thing_ for once in your fucking life and _put me first_!”

Brock had reached across the table to take Jack’s hands in his own, his expression the softest Jack had ever seen it. “I can’t,” he’d said simply. “You _know_ I can’t. This is so much bigger than you or me. We’re changing the world, Jack. Building something better. And sometimes that means having to make sacrifices. You know that.”

Sacrifices. As if they hadn’t made untold sacrifices for Hydra already. “Please,” Jack had whispered, but Brock had looked down at the table and said nothing, and Jack’s world just-

Stopped.

Brock had said something else after that, some bullshit about it being an honour, but Jack hadn't heard it. He’d stumbled upstairs, locked himself in the bathroom and cried like he hadn’t for years; huge, gulping sobs that left him wrung out and empty, with an ache deep in his chest that felt like someone had pried open his ribcage and wrapped their hand around his heart.

Brock was long gone by the time Jack opened the door and crawled into bed, and if he had been a smarter man, he would have bitten down on the barrel of his gun and blown his brains out right there and then.

Because death would have been better than what came next.

\---

It’s been 288 days since the first session.

Brock had asked, but Jack hadn’t gone with him. It would be better for him to be there, Brock had argued, so they could make sure he would be comfortable during the procedure. Jack had merely grunted in reply and turned over.

‘Comfortable’. What a joke that was. Being doped up to his eyeballs and left slumped in a too-small plastic chair in a too-bright sterile room was hardly Jack’s idea of being made _comfortable_.

So instead he had stayed in bed with the covers pulled up until the pain drove him to the bathroom and kept him there; shivering, sweating and retching into the toilet bowl as something inside him twisted and wrenched, warping and stretching and tearing, over and over again.

 _Please!_ he’d cried out into the empty room, his eyes screwed shut as wave after agonising wave washed over him. _Please make it stop!_ _Please! Pleasepleaseplease_ _!_

And eventually it had, but though weakened, their bond proved too strong to break on that first session, or the next, or on any of the ten that followed.

 --- 

It’s been 246 days since a sour-faced orderly led him into The Room.

Brock had been slumped in a chair staring vacantly at the far wall as medical staff buzzed around. Jack had stopped in front of him, squatting down between his legs and covering Brock’s clammy hands with his. “Hey,” he’d said softly, like he was trying to coax a scared animal out from its hiding place, but there had been no reaction, nor even the slightest hint of recognition as Brock’s eyes had flicked to meet his, and this time, when Jack had reached out through their bond, all he’d found was emptiness.

He hadn’t _needed_ to ask what they had done -had seen it many times before in fact- but he did anyway, and the doctor had explained in a bored voice that extreme measures had been required to ensure the success of the procedure.

“And Brock?”

The doctor had laid a slender hand on his arm. “Your concern is noted, Agent,” she had said, gracing him with an insincere and condescending smile. “But rest assured the subject will soon return to normal functioning.”

_Subject._

_Normal functioning._

He’d had his gun in his hand the moment she had finished her sentence, and Brock-

Brock had stayed Jack’s hand with nothing more than a look, like he’d done so many times before. Staring up at him from the chair, his pale and wan face a testament to what the sessions had put him through. “Go home, Jack,” he had said, his voice rough and hoarse. An old man’s voice in an old man’s face. “That’s an order.”

Jack had turned smartly on his heel and fled.

\--- 

It’s been 230 days since Brock moved out.

Jack had told him they would find a way to make it work, his thumbs brushing Brock’s cheekbones as he promised the impossible.

“This changes nothing,” he’d said, and God, he’d almost believed it. He’d _wanted_ to believe it so badly. Wanted to believe what they’d had couldn’t be erased that easily, that what they’d built up over the years couldn’t be so easily swept away, that there had been more to _them_ than just the bond.

And he’d tried. Fuck, they had _both_ tried.

But some things, once broken, can never be fixed.

\--- 

It’s been 213 days since Brock ceased to be his.

Brock had tried to keep it a secret, but Jack had found out anyway. He’d clocked out early, taken out a couple of hundred bucks and headed straight to a dive bar in a cheap part of town, chasing the kind of oblivion only liquor could provide.

He still doesn’t remember what he’d said to start the brawl, or who he’d said it to. Maybe he hadn’t said anything at all, maybe he’d groped a backside he shouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter now, and it hadn’t mattered then. What had _mattered_ was the pain bursting across his jaw as the first punch landed; the sharp tang of blood in his mouth when he licked his lips; the skin across his cheek splitting under some guy’s knuckles.

What had mattered was drowning out the noise in his head. What had mattered was _not thinking_.

Brock had pulled in favours to get him out of the drunk tank the next morning. It had taken Jack three attempts to do up his seatbelt, and he’d cried when he had seen the livid bruises Brock’s jacket collar didn’t quite cover, the way he’d winced when he sat down, his hand shaking as he reached over to turn on the radio.

The haunted look in his eyes as he’d stared fixedly at the road in front of them.

\--- 

It’s been 192 days since Jack was ‘promoted' to head a STRIKE team at one of SHIELD’s other facilities.

Brock hadn’t looked at him once. “You’re an exceptional agent,” he’d said, his eyes fixed on some point behind and to the left of Jack’s shoulder, “and you’re wasted as my second.”

Jack had stood there stunned for a minute before lurching forward. “Don’t do this,” he’d pleaded, begged even, not caring how pathetic he must have looked. “Brock, please don’t do this. Don’t send me away. _Please_.”

His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Distance, Brock had said in a strained voice, would be good for him, would make it easier for him to move on.

“Nothing will ever make this easier,” Jack had replied with utter conviction, “and I don’t want to move on.”

Ten years spent working side by side. Ten years spent keeping him safe and sane. Ten years watching him prioritise everything and everyone _else_ as he worked to make Pierce’s vision a reality. Ten years together and Brock didn’t turn up to his leaving drinks, didn’t sign his card.

Didn’t even say goodbye.

\--- 

It’s been 186 days when Jack sees him again.

He has a good team, but the mission has gone tits up so badly it can’t be salvaged. It’s a textbook example of what can happen when poor planning and communication failure occurs in a complex and changeable environment. They’re pinned down, they’ve got casualties, and a good leader knows when he needs to call in reinforcements.

Even so, Jack isn’t expecting Alpha to be the ones who cut their way through the enemies surrounding them to throw them a lifeline, and for a moment he watches, stunned, as Brock’s team ( _his_ team) fall into position around them. Then it’s like nothing has changed. Brock doesn’t need to say anything because Jack still knows what he’s thinking; knows where to put his people and how to move them, barking orders at them before he needs to be told.

With Alpha beside them they make it to the safe house without any further casualties to await evac. Brock keeps out of his way as Jack tends to his team and the business of setting watches, and Jack doesn't see him again until he climbs the stairs to one of the few private bedrooms he commandeered for himself and finds Brock curled on his side and already fast asleep.

Even in sleep his face looks drawn and tense, and Jack remembers the team telling him that Brock had changed, become harder, more severe, selfish, and always on edge. Jack hesitates in the doorway. He ought to leave and find somewhere else to crash, but fuck it, he’s tired and aching and he's in no fucking mood to sleep on the goddamned floor like a rookie and-

It’s been 186 days.

Besides, Brock will be gone from the bed before Jack wakes up. So what if Jack torments himself remembering what they used to have? Where's the harm in that? He shuts the door, strips off his gear and then settles down next to Brock, close enough to feel his body heat but no closer. He runs his fingers through Brock’s dark hair to smooth it back from his face, and quickly falls asleep.

It’s still dark outside when he startles awake some hours later. For a moment he can’t place what woke him until Brock shifts next to him, grinding his ass against Jack’s crotch with a small moan.

Jack props himself up on his arm to look over at him. “Brock,” he whispers, but Brock’s still asleep. He ought to move away or roll over, because this isn’t real, not really, but he doesn’t. Brock’s forehead wrinkles as he pushes back against Jack again, and Jack knows he’s hard even before he reaches around and palms his erection through his boxers, drawing a thin reedy whine from his throat.

It’s just a side effect of the Frankenstein thing they created when they cut Brock away from him and grafted him onto that thing. It’s an unnatural bond; nurtured not through love but through lust, violence and pain. A nightmarish thing that digs its claws deep into Brock’s soul and rends at him every moment it remains unfulfilled. Jack’s not supposed to know about it; the details are classified well above his level, and his head will roll if anyone ever finds out, but he had needed to know exactly what had been done.

Even though Brock wasn’t his anymore, he had needed to _know_.

Brock’s eyes fly open when Jack pushes his hand down inside and wraps it firmly around his erection. For a moment the same confusion shows on his face before realisation dawns. His mouth opens, and Jack leans down to kiss him before he can say anything.

“Imagine I’m him,” Jack whispers into his mouth. The words taste like ash in his mouth, but he knows, too, that Brock has occasionally tried to sate the hunger with other members of the team, and, fuck-

It’s been 186 days, and Jack isn’t a good man.

There’s a long silent moment when he breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and then Brock nods. “Then make it hurt,” he whispers, closing his eyes so he-

_(Don’t think about it)_

Jack kisses along the line of his jaw and down his throat, but Brock’s hands come up to grip at his shoulders when he goes to move lower. His eyes gleam in the darkness, and his fingernails dig sharply into Jack’s skin. “I said, make it _hurt_.”

Jack flips him onto his stomach without a word. Fuck it, it’s fine. If that's what he wants, then Jack can provide. He yanks Brock's boxers off his hips roughly enough to tear the fabric. It’s been a while since he last had a good fuck anyway, and Brock was always a real-

_(Don’t fucking think about it)_

He strips out of his own underwear and reaches down to fish the small pack of Vaseline out of his bag and coats his fingers. He ought to stop, he knows. Ought never to have touched him. Ought not to have got into the same bed as him in the first place, but he can’t stop.

It’s been 186 days.

He _won’t_ stop.

He’s rougher than he needs to be as he stretches Brock open one-handed, ignoring the way Brock arches and groans under him every time his fingernails catch on sensitive skin. His other hand works his own cock as he dredges up memories he’s tried so hard to forget.

_(Brock’s voice, half-amused, half-frustrated. ‘Christ’s sake, Jackie, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for hours. I’ll be an old man by the time you’re done, c’mon!’)_

Jack uses his hands to spread Brock’s ass cheeks apart and spits on him before pressing into him cruelly, before Brock’s ready, bearing inexorably forwards and down until he’s sheathed fully inside and Brock’s trembling underneath him. “Like this?” he growls. “This what you want?”

_(Beautiful, Jack thinks, drinking in the sight of sweat-slicked hair and flushed skin as Brock rides him, his head thrown back, chewing at his bottom lip as he pushes them both closer to the edge)_

“Please,” Brock answers in a small voice Jack’s never heard before, his voice breaking on the word. “Fuck, _please_.”

Jack pulls out slowly and pushes back in smoothly. The Vaseline isn’t enough to fully ease the way, and the movement drags a pained guttural sound from Brock’s throat. Jack pushes his head down into the mattress hard, keeping the pace slow but relentlessly steady and deep until he has Brock scrabbling at the sheets, a litany of pleas and curses falling from his lips, and it takes Jack a moment to realise that he’s speaking Russian.

_(“Luce mia,” Brock mumbles against his ear as they move together slowly, his warm breath ghosting across Jack’s skin. “Tesoro mio. Vita mio. Ti amo." Jack doesn’t understand a word, barely even hears them because suddenly Brock’s shifting position and he’s close, he’s so close, he’s-)_

Jack grabs him by the hair and yanks him up onto his knees, making his back bow. He fucks into him hard, one hand clamped around his hip and the other wrapped tightly around his neck. He angles his thrusts just so, and Brock shudders once, twice, and then again, and again.

“ _Soldat_ ...” he whines, squirming in Jack’s grasp. “ _Pozhaluista!_ ”

Jack tugs his head back roughly. “No. In English, you fuck,” he snarls. “ _Say it in English_!”

Brock shakes his head as much as Jack’s grip will allow. “Jack...” he chokes out, pushing himself back onto Jack’s cock with a broken groan. “Fuck, Jack, I-”

They come at the same time; Brock writhing against him as he bucks and gasps through his orgasm, Jack's hand around his throat, squeezing until Brock's breath rattles past his teeth.

_(“-love you. Fuck, I love you. Only you, it’s only ever gonna be you…”)_

_\---_

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: never write a story in the past perfect or present perfect tense ever again


End file.
